


blood feud

by hertorpor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Aphrodisiacs, Blood, Dubious Consent, Eventual Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Sad, Smut, Someone Help Will Graham, dark themes, dubcon, fight, fight fight fight, handjob, more to come depending on response to this, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hertorpor/pseuds/hertorpor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't supposed to find out. Not yet. </p><p>Will discovers the truth prematurely, which rocks him to the core. Hannibal is indeed the ripper. Naturally, emotions get tangled in the mess, and when he goes to confront Hannibal with the new-found truth he has excavated, Hannibal monopolizes the situation by manipulating his feelings. He wants to turn him into his thrall. Punches are thrown, but Hannibal knows his way around Will. He is no unforgiving labyrinth or an undecipherable lexicon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood feud

There is congealed blood in his nose. It rims his nose, the salute of blood signifying a turn in this situation. Slowly, it surrenders itself to gravity, slowly dripping down the infranasal depression. Will is balking at him.

Hannibal’s smile is woven like a slender whip, for it is teasing yet emotionless and frail. The spidery waves of Will’s veins on his wrists and neck are throbbing with energy; ah, they are pumping adrenaline already. There was a low hum of music that reminds Hannibal of the shallow electrical drone that fluorescent lights emanated. This would be the perfect kill, he thought to himself.

Will is going to make the third move; the blood was dragging across his cheek as he lunges. But the movement is slow and flimsy like gossamer. Hannibal’s expression lights up with elation, pulling his head back before the fist made contact. Will can see himself reflected in Hannibal’s eyes. A silky world across an articulate eye.

Will’s expression again shifts. Perhaps it was anger, or something more damaged. Betrayal? His movements are jerky and infirm. He is fueled by misery and fury and something else. Disappointment, or maybe affection?

There are no words that need to be said. They both are aware of the reasons this was happening. Will’s teeth clamp together. He is an animal. Hannibal is graceful, which is in striking contrast with the graceless beast before him. He’s mad. Emotions are mingling in his eyes. Angry tears or sad tears? Overcome with emotion, Will’s grimace further dents his cheek.

Hannibal’s dodge allows him a beeline to Will, which takes full advantage of. He smoothly extends his arms to grab the offending fist, constricting his fingers around Will’s. Will looks at him with a tortured stare. He fell for it. The brilliant Will Graham fell for this elaborate scheme, and he let Hannibal Lecter, the Ripper, shape him like a lathe.

He then restrains Will by the wrist, quickly snatching up both arms with one large movement. Will is tearful, cruelly besieged by an array of conflicting emotions. He wished it could not be true. For any normal being, his anguish would touch his heart and he would free him. But no normal being could commit such transgressions that Hannibal has.

Hitched in Will’s throat is a breath he refuses to let out, fearing that he may express some sort of weak emotion like sorrow. He had to fight. He needed to show restraint with the emotions, but it was getting the better of him. Hannibal looms down at him, waiting for the despair to reach full fruition.

The tears come in bursts. Coupled with the way Hannibal is looking at him (so unfeeling), and the realization that had dawned on him, there was no evading the hot flow of tears. This piques the cannibal’s interest, for one eyebrow arches as if to inquire. Will shuts his eyes. He’s surveying his eyes as if they are leaking the sweetest of nectar, and he can’t stand it.

Dropping to his knees, Will can’t take anymore. The ground probably bruised his knees as he made contact, making shelves of various items shake. He is disoriented, in a dream-like state concocted with anxiety and the overwhelming notion that Hannibal is a murderer. He’ll kill him. Will has resigned himself to that now.

The water is running – what is he doing? Washing the blood from his hands and knuckles, getting ready to slice Will Graham up into tiny bitty pieces? Will lowers his head, and the strings that connect muscle to tissue strain. He’s going to kill him.

But his forehead is greeted with a soft washcloth instead. The water is lukewarm. Deft fingers gently caress under his stubble-ridden chin, tilting his head skyward as he rubs off the sanguine marks. Maybe he’s just getting rid of evidence before burying a kitchen knife in his throat. His throat is bare and ready. Come on, Hannibal, just do it.

Yet, he doesn’t. Even with the jaundiced flesh of his throat exposed, he does not lunge at him like feral animal. That’s what he is, so why doesn’t he act on instinct? Will opens his eyes. Hannibal is fondly sponging off the red impressions, for the corners of his mouth are turned up. He’s enjoying this.

“Please,” He mouths, no voice coming out. His skin is becoming this sickly pallid tone, and he’s beginning to swear. “Tell me it’s not true,”

Hannibal is shaking his head and more tears collect at the corners of his eyes. He’s done for. The dirty flowers of blood on his skin are almost gone, but he’s going ever so slow.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Will croaks at him, trying to divert his head away from his touch, but the hand against his throat is gripping him too tightly to let him move. “You can’t, I—”

The murder places a hand over Will’s mouth, looking down at him with feigned sympathy. Shut up, he’s saying. What, is he ruining the moment? Hannibal’s washcloth moves down to Will’s jawline and he keeps it there. It’s cold now.

“I know,” He says soothingly, removing his hand from his mouth to stroke his cheek with his hand. “Hush.”

Hannibal stands up, rounding him to open up a nearby drawer. Will cannot see what he withdraws, but can hear the sound of a syringe drawing up liquid. Okay, if stabbing was too messy then lethal injection would work. Will’s eyes dwindle shut again, ready to pass on. All he needs is the push of the poison Hannibal is injecting him with.  
Syringe needles have never been something Will likes. The expert doctor-killer extraordinaire is artfully pushing the needle into his bicep, but it still stings. It doesn’t take him even a minute to find a viable vein. Will has heard of lethal injections where it takes the doctors hours, sometimes days to find a good vein that can circulate the poison without causing immense pain.

At first, he feels nothing. He’s waiting for something to happen. The suit-clad demon before him clearly is too, but his expression is more sinister. Will is waiting to drop dead, writing his epitaph out mentally. A strange feeling thrums in his lower abdomen, and he assumes it’s the poison doing its job. Instead, the feeling pools to his groin, and he slowly opens an eye.

A dream, this had to be a dream. Hannibal is eyeing him with a pleased expression. Will felt a stirring in his pants, inadvertently beginning to get an erection. This wasn’t his fault. There was no way that such a situation could elicit a lecherous reaction such as this. The injection wasn’t lethal. Had he used an aphrodisiac on him? He winced, his hand trailing down to cover over the evidence of his arousal.

Hannibal wasn’t letting that happen. He crouched before him, taking his wrist in his hand (again), yanking it away from its defensive position. Will is turning a brilliant shade of pink, labored breaths hitched far back in this throat, exhaling shakily to prevent himself from succumbing fully to the aphrodisiac Hannibal injected into him. It’s clearly not working, because the strain of his erection against the fabric of his pants is beginning to become more and more evident.

A hand finds its way onto Will’s inner thigh, which is nauseating for him. Will wants to push Hannibal off, but something is keeping him from it. He’s holding his breath, but it keeps coming out in gasps or growls or something lewd. He hates this. Will doesn’t understand why he didn’t kill him. He’s chewing on the dry part of his lip, marring the flesh on them.

Hannibal’s hand begins to unzip his trousers, and this makes Will flinch. His attempts to bat away his hand are feeble at best, because once his hand makes contact with Hannibal’s arm, the hand is already freeing his erection and this feels good. Something is telling him he doesn’t want this to stop, but no, no; he does want it to stop. 

The obvious is that Hannibal does not love him. He wants to have power over him because he is set on the notion that Will is an interesting specimen. He wants to hold him, take care of him, and most of all, manipulate him, turn him into a wounded bird without any hope of freeing itself, beating its wings against the cruel wires of a cage. The soft, controlled pumps that Hannibal is giving his member is making him hollow out his back, arching to his touch involuntarily. It’s hot. He feels like he has a fever. 

At this point, Will’s grimace is fighting to remain on his expression. He is alternating between a slack-jawed stall and an angry countenance, and one could guess which is winning. He has to dig his teeth into his tongue to keep himself from babbling, because he knows that anything he says will be fueled by desire rather than logic. There is precum dripping down the tip of his erection, which is helping the effort of the slow pace Hannibal has set for Will. He does not speed up. Will’s lips are beginning to part. Heat is pooling in his abdomen; a pleasant contrast with the coldness of dried tears on his face. 

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is dulcet as he calls his name, and there is no concrete answer to whether or not Will is imagining him saying this. With a final thrust, Will orgasms into the doctor's hand, relieving the horrible and delightful pressure that was building in his abdomen. It doesn’t get onto Hannibal’s suit (luckily, he thinks to himself), but he withdraws his hand. Will is left on his knees, propped against the wall as he comes down from the orgasm. 

Why is this happening?


End file.
